Almost, Always, Anywhere
by Hearrtonmysleeve
Summary: Maybe it's fate, and maybe it's luck. Some things are just meant to be. One-shot. Non-Established Mirandy.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N 1: I've been out of commission for a while, so please be nice**

**A/N 2: Shout out to Elliewrites, the world's greatest cheerleader even halfway across the world.**

**A/N 3: There is the smallest Will & Grace reference ever buried within. Bonus points if you can find it.**

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><p>You really should pay closer attention to these things.<p>

After all, isn't your whole life about attention to detail? It is you, and you alone who makes final decisions about what sinks and what sails in the fashion world. It's a widely known fact that what starts in fashion seeps into other arenas, so really your decisions don't stop at ink on paper. And that skill comes from years and years of hard work polishing your discerning eye. Many don't possess the patience required to do this. And that is precisely what makes you the best of the best.

It's not just about attention to detail, though. It's also about deciding what's practical, and what is not just a passing fad. What's persistent enough to last the test of time, and what's strong enough to climb above the rest. It's not only about what can do all of these things, but who.

Success is also due in part to the ability to multitask. This is not just about walking and talking, but about juggling photo shoots and run-throughs and remembering which twin played what song at a piano recital. Walking and talking by contrast should be a piece of cake.

Many people think that you toss out assistants as a hobby. But this is entirely incorrect. In fact, most assistants that are fired from your employ meet this fate because they simply do not have what it takes. If a girl cannot bring your coffee as hot as you want it, or if she fails to learn the difference between charcoal and dove gray, or even if she lets important phone calls run to voicemail she does not belong at that desk of yours. There's a reason that people work for you one year and they can get a job anywhere they want. It's because they work hard, and they earn it.

Andrea, you admit, was the exception to most of your rules. The girl waltzed into your office looking and acting like no assistant you had ever seen, so you let her stick around simply to see where things would go. Not only do you live on hope, but you can be passionately curious when you want to be. Little did you know that Andrea Sachs would take you on the wildest journey of your life.

You did not mean to fall for her.

She came to you with deplorable hair and clothes and attitude and _everything._ Falling for this girl was the last thing on your mind. But like the sweetest flower in your garden, under your helpful hand she changed and grew and took up root in your life. Forgetting her will be impossible, but holding her here with you would be squashing her under your heel. You have no doubt in your mind that no matter where she plants herself after _Runway_, she will blossom beautifully.

Sometimes when waiting for the book, you take Andrea out to a late dinner. The meal always begins with talk of work, but then morphs into something more personal and enjoyable. Over chicken caesar salads or grilled salmon and asparagus you learn the smallest things about Andrea Sachs. You learn that Andrea is addicted to red licorice and reality TV, and you learn which novels always make her cry. She learns that your daughters are named from movie characters, and that in the privacy of your home you secretly enjoy a nice cold beer. Some of your responses to her questions even make her laugh.

Especially when she asked you one night, "If you didn't work at _Runway_, what would you be?"

Your eyes held mirth over your wine glass as you answered, "A romance novelist."

Andrea cackled at the unexpected answer and pried for more, "Is that so?"

"Mmhmm," you'd said teasingly. "My pen name would be Anastasia Beaverhousen," your lips quirked into a reluctant smile, "And I would also lead an underground kitten breeding operation."

"I see," she giggled, "So you'd be a cat lady who writes smut?"

You nod once, "Precisely."

"Well it sounds to me, Miranda Priestly, that you've got your alternate life all figured out." Andrea's elbows rested on the table, propping up her chin. Those brown eyes shined with humor and something else that looked a lot like affection.

You neglect to tell her that also in this other life, you and she would life happily ever after. Somehow you think that this little nugget of information would kill the mood.

Not only is Andrea gorgeous and smart, but she's loyal to a fault. During the past couple months you have spent time with her and she's taken up residence in your heart. You aren't foolish enough to believe that she returns these feelings, but the thought of that very thing has kept you warm on cold nights.

It happens on a sidewalk.

You're meeting with possible new talent in a nondescript office building in Manhattan. Roy is parked a few blocks away, gridlocked in traffic. Luckily, it's not too far to walk back to your office, and this will probably be the last warm day before fall hits. You may as well take advantage of it.

You typically do not let daydreams overwhelm you to the point of negligence to your own task. But Andrea has decided to walk in front of you today, with her nose in her cell phone, emailing some minion on your behalf. Her slacks are navy blue, and she's tucked a cream-colored blouse with and emerald print into them. Her figure looks fantastic.

You're content to walk a few paces behind her, enjoying the stroll. You wish she would put down her device and enjoy it with you. Perhaps another time. At the crosswalk, you catch up to Andrea, and it's now that she chooses to speak.

"That last designer was pretty cool," she says absentmindedly still looking at her phone. Her feet prepare to take a step into the street when they hear the crosswalk sign ding to notify pedestrians of their turn to cross the street.

"But his assistant is a real piece of wo–" All at once your arms are around her midsection, pulling her out of the street and back onto the sidewalk. A horn blares, and within milliseconds a giant city bus speeds through the space where Andrea was just standing. If you had not pulled her from the street, she would have been flattened under the vehicle of a careless driver that ran a red light. Although you are squeezing Andrea tight enough that her lungs should probably collapse, it is you who is fighting with a sudden shortness of breath.

If you had been a second later, Andrea could be dead. Or at least severely injured. Nothing on this earth has ever scared you more.

You should have been paying attention. What happened to attention to detail? What happened to multitasking? You were distracted by a pretty girl in a pretty blouse. A girl whose nose was practically attached to her phone screen on your behalf. A girl who almost died doing work for you, too busy to look up.

She is still alive, but you might soon be sick.

Andrea spins around in your arms, searching your face and squeezing your biceps. "Are you okay?" she asks. You must look like you've just seen a ghost. You can feel how wide your eyes are and how they can't stop looking at Andrea, making sure she's real.

"I…" you try to say, but your voice sounds like dust. Your eyes are still huge and you are still holding her around her waist. "I.." you try again. This is too hard. You cannot do this here. You refuse to.

How do you face the fact that the one person on the planet who holds your affections aside from two red heads could have just as soon been on her way to the morgue?

You run.

Andrea is pushed out of your arms by your own muscles and you make a break for it. The street is now clear so you do not hesitate to trot across it and in the direction of the Elias-Clarke building. You can hear her hot on your heels, but you've had decades more practice than her at running in stilettos.

"Miranda!" Andrea calls after you, "Wait!"

That's one thing that you simply cannot do. Your destination is getting closer and closer the faster you run even if you know that you cannot run forever. The Elias Clarke building swims into view, but for the life of you, you cannot force yourself to enter it and continue working like this is a regular day. Today is anything but regular. Today is the day that you came ridiculously close to almost losing half of your heart.

You keep up your fast clip as you walk past the building, but you hear her hot on your heels. Your pace is slowed as you squeeze your way through foot traffic. It seems like everyone else feels perfectly at ease blocking your way and they are in no hurry at all. "Miranda!" she sounds a little breathless and it makes you want to turn around. Instead, you keep swiftly moving down the street, not ready to try and face her. One look into your eyes and she will know, you are certain of it, the depth of your feelings. One look into your eyes and she might turn around and run from you instead.

"Would you just-" Andrea bumps into someone on the sidewalk who yells an obscenity in her direction, "slow down for like a minute?" There is another cross walk up ahead, you just have to make it in time for her to be left on this side of the street. You hope you can make it, but the odds are not in your favor.

At the last second, the walk sign dims into the red hand that halts your journey across this street and a way from Andrea. You hear heavy breathing behind you, before a hand whips you around by your wrist. "What," she swallows, "the hell is wrong with you?" Heavy breaths wheeze from the both of you, hers from running, yours from her.

You are not given enough time to mask your face and all of your emotions spill out of your eyes at once. She looks at you and is immediately taken aback, probably because she has rarely seen you this expressive. The truth hits her and her eyelashes flutter a little. They gorgeously frame her eyes, and your reverent gaze probably tells her so. "Oh," she simply says, but keeps her eyes on yours.

Embarrassed, your eyes get a little wet, so Andrea gently pulls you out of sidewalk traffic to the side of a brick building. You haven't felt the urge to cry in years and for a moment you curse this girl who pulls such emotion out of you. Your gaze shifts down toward your wringing hands, and you prepare to step away from Andrea Sachs, perhaps forever.

"No, wait, Miranda. No," she says, pulling you back towards her. No? What could she possibly mean? Your clueless face is full of questions so she elaborates a little. "I um," she blushes, "me too."

Could it be possible that Andrea Sachs may just love you back? It is her that sees the love in her eyes. Willful Andrea Sachs who has not had a lifetime of admiring details. The both of you are not prepared to say these words to one another, but she pulls you into a hug instead. If there were any lingering doubts the kiss she places on your cheek silences them quite nicely. "Oh," slips out from your mouth unintentionally. She laughs a little, her hand still at the base of your neck. Her smile is blinding. Yours might be too.

Before she can pull her arms away, you pull her waist in closer and decide to just go for it. Why not? People swarm around the two of you in the evening traffic, too poorly dressed to care about Miranda Priestly. Her mouth is warm and soft and wet against yours, and the whimper she lets out travels to the soft part of your belly. You love her. She loves you back. She is quite pleasantly alive in your arms, and that's the thought that pulls you away from her addictive lips.

Both of your eyes connect after the kiss. She looks a little dreamy, but you imagine that you probably do as well. "I could have lost you." The words feel loud in the air after such soft kisses.

"But you didn't," she says back gently, "I'm right here." For emphasis she gently takes your head in her hands, smoothing your hair behind your ear before kissing both of your eyelids. Her kiss then travels to the bump in your nose and wanders down to your own lips. You sigh. "You are."

A car horn beeps a little too loudly, but it sensibly pulls you both back to reality. Silently you walk back in the direction of the Elias-Clarke building, the knuckles on your hand brushing hers every few steps. You cannot recall being this happy in quite a long time. It baffles you that your entire career is built on attention to detail, yet you neglected to notice the most important detail of all. Too blinded by your seemingly hopeless affection, you could not see that she loves you too.

In front of the building, Roy has made it through the traffic and is waiting to ferry you off to whatever destination you choose. Andrea waits beside you with her little paper pad and pen, ready to play the part of your faithful assistant for the sake of your reputation. Maybe she has forgotten your very public kiss on a very public sidewalk. You have to try not to melt just as much as you have to try not to kiss her adorable cheek. You smirk at her surprise when you take the items from her hands and say, "Where would you like to go for dinner?"

There is shock in her eyes but a smile on her lips.

"Anywhere."

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><p><strong>AN 4: As always, it's been a pleasure.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I had no idea there was more to this story, but apparently there is?**

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><p><em>This just in!<em>

_Listen up, darlings, 'cause we have some juicy news to share. Guess which notoriously chilly fashion maven was seen in a steamy embrace on a Manhattan corner? If you guessed Anna Wintour, you should turn your thermometers a little lower, toward the Ice Queen herself. That's right, Miranda Priestly was heard to be canoodling a gorgeous brunette in broad daylight. Is orange really the new black? Stay tuned, we'll let you know!_

_Page Six, Your Number One Stop for Celeb Gossip!_

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><p>Word of your kiss with Andrea travels fast. You have no idea why you are so shocked. Page Six is spread out across your lap in bed, mocking you and cheapening your relationship. Thankfully the deplorable publication has not yet gotten a hold of Andrea's name. She perhaps still has a few precious days (or hours) of security before all major news outlets catch hold of the story and run with it.<p>

Sitting up in bed, you look beside you to the glorious head of chocolate hair fanned out across her pillow. Andrea looks both innocent and sexy, even now in a pair of borrowed pajamas and dead to the world. She hears the rustle of newspaper and burrows deeper into the covers with a sigh. Must she be adorable at all times? Surely this has to be terrible for your concentration.

A cell phone ringing breaks the silence of your peaceful Saturday morning. It's Leslie, your public relations consultant, so you slide your finger across the screen to answer even though you would love to let her call go to voicemail.

"Hello," you say, boredom lacing your tone. Andrea stirs beside you, so you run your fingers gently through her hair.

"Miranda, what the hell?"

Leslie is one of the only people who could probably get away with speaking to you like this. She is far too good at her job for you to fire her over a few profanities. Even you, the Dragon Lady, aren't stupid enough to let your ego overrule your common sense.

"Why didn't you warn me? This is a fucking mess!" Andrea has slithered her way across your lap, snuggling her head into your stomach and wrapping her arms around your waist. A shock of pleasure courses through you.

You continue to finger comb her hair, loving the sweet smell and silky feel. "Leslie, I'm going to be frank with you," you say up front, "It was all very sudden."

The media will have a field day. You cannot find it in yourself to be sorry.

"Like hell it was!" Leslie sounds a little amused, and a little less panicked. She's seen you through two divorces; this should be a piece of cake. You tell her so.

"Not to mention," you add, "lesbianism is quite fashionable these days." At this, Andrea snorts out a little laugh, so you pinch her shoulder. She swats you back.

"It better be," she mutters. After a moment, she gets the courage to ask, "Who is she?"

You have no idea why you are nervous. Of Andrea, you are in no way ashamed. Still, a little lump forms in your throat and you swallow around it. "My assistant, Andrea Sachs."

Andrea slides up a little more in bed, covering more of her body with yours. Pink lips press gently to your sternum before making their way up to your neck, making you sigh.

"Are you kidding me?" Leslie bellows into the phone.

Andrea continues gentle assault, her mouth keeping you grounded. You have no idea how you manage to give Leslie further instructions, making sure your job, and Andreas, is safe.

Before she hangs up, Leslie says to you, "Miranda, she better be worth it."

You've never been more sure of anything in your life, "She is." With that, the call is disconnected.

After dropping your phone back onto the bedside table, you find your arms filled with a very attractive woman. "You know," you say to Andrea, "eavesdropping is very rude."

Andrea giggles at your antics, "Oh really," she teases back, "and what are you going to do about it?"

Taking advantage of her distracted state, you surprise her when you roll her onto her back in the middle of the bed. She laughs a twinkling laugh at the turn of events, the sound washing over you pleasantly. When was the last time you laughed with someone else in bed? When was the last time you felt this light?

Hovering over her, you are taken aback once again by her beauty. The previous night you both spent a significant amount of time kissing and touching and learning each other. You wouldn't mind spending the morning in the exact same way. Your lips meet hers, the little shock in your belly still present even after hours together last night. You have a feeling it will take a long time to fade. Everything about Andrea is refreshingly different than your previous marriages. When you think about how they ended, you are grateful for this fact.

Andrea is delicious. You learned this, too, the night before. You also learned that she loves when you nibble on her lower lip, so you do a little of that as well. She lets out a breathy little moan, her fingertips rubbing at the base of your skull. Moments go by before you realize that you are purring, but you're too caught up in her to feel ashamed.

Before you know it, you are straddling Andrea's hips and your lips have migrated to the shell of her ear. You try to tell her how amazing she is but all that comes out is, "Mmmm." Your breath in her ear makes her shiver, her chest arching up into your body.

"My God," she says, before kissing you again. Her tongue finds yours and you can't help grinding into her a little. This whole morning feels so amazing; Page Six could not be further away from your mind. Andrea's hands slip from your hair, down your back, and to your ass. Your moans are loud this time and she smiles into the kiss.

After a few minutes of this, you look down into her eyes. She smiles back up at you and nods her head without you ever having to say a word. Before you go any further, you need to be clear about your feelings.

"I love you, Andrea." The admission feels weightless on your tongue. She smiles her million-watt smile at you and returns the sentiment.

"I love you too, Miranda." She kisses your palm.

Both sets of pajamas form a pile at the end of your bed. Soon the room is filled with nothing but kissing and whispers of _oh yes_ and _right there_. You can't believe that something so sweet is suddenly yours.

In a warm sated pile, your head is on her chest. Andrea plants the sweetest kiss on your forehead melting the Ice Queen's heart into a pile of goo. While your fingertips trace her arm the words slip out, "I can't believe I've lived this long without you." You didn't mean to say them but once they are out you cannot deny the truth.

Andrea takes a deep breath and you can feel the smile in her voice. "Well it's a good thing you'll never have to live without me again." There is so much promise in that one statement. Your track record is betting against you, but you are determined to make this one stick for good.

The shower you share is both pleasant and efficient, and an hour later you are side by side at your kitchen counter. The space seems larger when not full of children, and you take advantage of this by making French toast from scratch. The girls would be jealous if they knew what you were up to this morning so you promise to yourself to make it up to them.

As if reading your mind, Andrea pipes up from beside you at the stove, "Do Cass and Caroline like French toast?"

You plant a kiss on her shirt-covered shoulder just for asking. "They do," you say while focusing on whisking eggs and cinnamon with a fork, "quite possibly more than they love their own mother."

The words come out in a chuckle making your glasses slip down your nose a little. You wanted to put in your contacts this morning, but Andrea insisted your prescription tortoise-shell frames were charming. You have no idea why.

"Now that," she says while cutting wheat bread into triangles, "is impossible."

You clear your throat to cover your blush, but Andrea knocks your hip with hers to show that she's seen it anyway. She looks delightful with her hair in a ponytail and void of pants. Andrea waits patiently for you to finish whisking, so that she can dip the bread before tossing it in the pan. You'd discovered pretty quickly that she was terrible at cracking eggs when the first one she cracked in the bowl was littered with eggshell. You love her dearly, but you do not like your breakfast unnecessarily crunchy.

Breakfast goes off without a hitch, and you leave the dirty dishes in the sink. Andrea looks around the room a little awkwardly, as if she is waiting for you to ask her to leave. You may be loath to admit it, but as long as she walks around pantsless she may stay however long she likes. Taking pity on her forlorn look, you grab her hand gently. "Come along, Andrea," you say, "let's pick out a movie."

Upstairs, Andrea is awed by the size of the television in your home theater. Instead of the comfortable chars, you both opt to spend the duration of the movie on a bed of pillows on the floor. Halfway through, you've lost interest in the characters on screen in favor of Andrea's hand rubbing little circles on your thigh. She notices your distraction and humors you with a make out session. Brilliant girl.

The movie leads to an afternoon snack, which bleeds into a game of scrabble in your upstairs study. You realize while playing that you have met your match in the wordsmith that is Andrea Sachs. The game is a lot more intense than you originally planned because this girl is just as competitive as you are. It only makes you love her more. In the last round, you have a ten-point lead, but she gets to make the last move.

"How about we make things interesting," you dramatically stroke your chin like a movie villain.

"How so?" she asks, leaning back in her chair with her mussed ponytail.

"If I win, I get something I want," you say, "and if you win the same goes for you."

Andrea's lips spread into a wide, Cheshire grin. "Deal."

It turns out Andrea's coveted prize is getting to second base with you on the couch. You neglect to mention that you would have gladly given this away for free.

When you glance at the clock, you realize that soon you will have to leave to pick up Caroline and Cassidy from the train station. At the same time, you realize that you will probably have to say goodbye to Andrea and pop your safe little bubble of warmth and contentment. The paparazzi have no doubt been camping out on your front porch the entire day.

Andrea must feel the shift in the air. "It's almost time, huh?" she says with her head snuggled into the crook of your neck. She left a mark there earlier that will not be easy to cover up. Her legs shift around yours under the blanket that is covering you both.

"Mmmm," you say noncommittally while stroking her back. Andrea pulls the blanket back and stands up, the cool air shocking you a little. You follow her to your bedroom and watch as she collects her things from around the room.

"Leave them," you say softly, "I can send your things with the dry cleaning."

"Oh. Um, okay," she responds, leaving her clothes in a little folded pile on the dresser. You cannot meet her eyes, a little ashamed at how pitiful talk of her leaving makes you feel.

Her feet come into the line of vision as your gaze stays firmly rooted to the carpet. "Miranda?" she asks, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Andrea," you say a little more harshly than you meant it. Your tone softens to the point of being hard to hear, "I do not want you to go."

At your words she hugs you close. "Oh Miranda, me too."

"I can come over tomorrow for dinner," she says with a lilt as if trying to coerce a child into a plate of vegetables.

"We can have dinner with the twins and I can beat them at Scrabble too." You hate that this made you laugh.

"Alright," you sigh with a little smile.

"Just think of how awesome if will feel when you pick the girls up from the train station," Andrea says with a little kiss to your nose, "I know how much you miss them when they're gone."

It ought to be a little uncanny how well this woman knows you. You wouldn't change a thing about it if you could. You let her go so that she can finish getting dressed, and in the mean time you pull on slacks and tuck a blouse into them. If the world is going to take your picture today, you may as well look the part. The heels that you slip into matches the DVF trench in your hall closet perfectly. Not to mention, it's got the high collar that you need. With a quick brush to your hair and a dusting of makeup, you are ready to go.

Before she leaves your room, Andrea walks to your bureau and spritzes herself with a splash of your perfume. She slips past you standing in the doorway and whispers, "so I can have you with me all night." You shiver.

You lead Andrea down to the kitchen, where she will slide out the back door to escape the hassle of the many people itching to capture you both on film. You do not wish to hide her forever, but at the same time you do not wish to cause her unnecessary harm. Gossip rags breed vultures and you want to keep her as safe as you can.

With another lengthy kiss and a promise to come to dinner tomorrow, Andrea is gone. You look around your empty kitchen and try not to feel so lonely. The dirty dishes in the sink are there to remind you of the spectacular day you've had, so you choose to smile and remember it instead of mourning its loss.

Roy sends a text to let you know that he is ready to ferry you off to go get your daughters. You hope that he is ready to face the media storm outside your home. You know that with your girls and Andrea at your side, you are ready to face anything.


End file.
